Partners in Crime
by Breathless Ivory
Summary: Tulio Rivera is a cop and his partner is Miguel Rubio. When a perfectly normal job gets completely out of hand, the duo is forced to go on the run from the law.
1. Doughnuts

**I doubt that there are many of you who read the old version of this story. Nonetheless, they exist and so I need to go into a tiny bit of explaining. **

**I had originally intended for this story to be a series of humorous one-shots in which our favorite duo finds themselves in a multitude of sticky situations in which hilarity ensued. Unfortunately, as I was attempting to write such a thing I realized a fatal problem in my otherwise brilliant plan. **

**I really suck at writing humor.**

**Thus I did a bit of rearranging and planning and came up with a much more emotional and adventure-filled story that will hopefully make you laugh and cry and all that good stuff.**

**And for those of you who just might have co****me here looking for the original chapter, it didn't really go anywhere. Below is basically word-for-word what I used to have, I just added a couple paragraphs and hopefully altered the mood enough to entice you.**

**For those of you who have never been here before, you can just skip all that and go straight to the story. :)**

**~Breathless**

* * *

_Do you know the definition of normal?_

_ The dictionary will tell you this: Conforming to a standard; usual, typical, or expected._

_ I suppose that makes sense. I remember thinking of normal as boring; as what people _don't_ want to be. Who wants to be normal? Everyone wants to be rich and famous. Let me tell you, famous is great, _in_famous sucks._

_ Alright, I obviously already have an answer lined up. Let me tell you what I've come up with: Taking things for granted. If you're taking your life for granted, that's a pretty big clue that your life is normal. If you've ever seen a really depressing movie, or one revolving around some sort of genetic freak, then you know that all they want is a normal life. And there's a reason for that. Normal is easy. Normal is comfortable and safe and warm._

_ Normal is home._

_Remembering the old days still ignites an ache in my chest. Even after all these years. But it's the last day that somehow sticks with me the most. The last bit of normalcy in my life before everything fell apart for the worst._

_ I'll tell you my story. And maybe, when I'm done, you'll stop taking everything for granted. But who am I kidding?_

_ We both know you won't._

It's a Saturday afternoon. The kind where the sun is shining bright and it's hot as hell, but you don't really notice because there's this continuous breeze that cools you down just right. The kind where a man can feel good about himself and hang out with his best friend and partner in crime.

"So, what are you thinking?" I am snapped out of my thoughts by the question. I glance over at said best friend and stroke my goatee in thought. Miguel says I do it all the time when I'm thinking hard but I usually ignore him.

"I dunno. It's a difficult decision really. It gets me every time." Miguel rolls his eyes, but I can see him smiling and know he didn't really mind my pickiness. I don't know how he stands it; it drives me insane when it takes him forever to decide.

"Tulio, they're just doughnuts," he points out.

"Yes, but I don't know what I'm in the mood for," I reply. The decision is a challenging one. And all the different kinds sitting right in front of my eyes aren't helping. The possibilities range from creamy chocolate frosting to fruity jelly-filled. The mere thought makes both my mind and stomach whine with indecision.

"You say that every Saturday, and then after fifteen minutes of painful deliberation you just get glazed._ Every Saturday_." Miguel reminds me, but all I really hear is glazed. Ah, the delectable simplicity of the glazed doughnut.

"Yes, but―"

"Every. Single. Saturday." I sigh. He does have a valid point. Why ruin a good day by picking something I may not like? Glazed is definitely something I like. On the short list of things I love the golden deliciousness of a well-made doughnut is number four behind my job, my best friend, and my wife.

"Fine. One glazed." I tell him, handing him a couple bucks. His eyebrows shoot straight up and I know what is coming next.

"Only one?" he asks incredulously. I rub the back of my neck and chuckle softly. I never get a thing past him. When Miguel is sober he notices everything. That's why he makes such a damn good cop.

"Funds are a bit tight this week. Chel went out shopping with her friends the other night and got a little carried away. " I love my wife to death, but she has a nasty shopping addiction that only gets worse with time. I have to hand it to her though, she uses everything she bought.

"Ah. I thought so. Excuse me for a second." Miguel goes up to the cashier and orders our breakfast. I love this little ritual of ours, but not just because of the food. It's really the one day of the week I got to chat with my best friend about anything other than work. A police officer never really has a day off, but somehow we've managed to get a lot of Saturday mornings free.

We've been partners for roughly eleven years. I knew Miguel even before I met Chel. Miguel had been there when my father had his heart attack, and I had been there when his mother had given birth to his surprise sister. I see him every day at work, but for some reason it's nice to simply sit and chat.

Also, doughnuts.

Miguel returns with my change and I pocket it at random. Fortunately it doesn't take long for our order to arrive and Miguel carries the coffee while I carry the doughnuts just like always. We eat in our squad car. We don't have to be at work for several hours, but it's still nice to freak out the teenage punks by giving them the stink eye.

I open the bag and am surprised to see not one, but two glazed doughnuts. Miguel hates glazed. I hand him his sprinkles and didn't say anything for a moment while I indulge. It's not until I am wiping away the crumbs from my goatee that I thank him.

"Don't mention it." Miguel shrugs. He lives on his own in a decent apartment. He makes a steady income and somehow manages to spend it wisely. He always had pocket change to spare. But to be fair, he isn't married to a wife who was having an affair with JCPenny's.

Then we talk. His little sister, Rosie, had lost another tooth and just finished second grade. Miguel is thrilled to have a sibling, but I know he still found it strange even after seven and a half years. He'd been an only child up until then and when he found out his forty-four year-old mother was pregnant he was both extremely elated and thoroughly disgusted. She really is a sweet thing though. She has blonde hair like Miguel, but blue eyes. It makes me wonder about me and Chel sometimes.

I tell him how my dog Bibo is faring after his most recent surgery. He's Chel's mostly. She cuddles with him and pets him and gives him treats, and I feed him, walk him, and clean up his shit. He's a good dog though, if you're into the small type.

"Hey," Miguel gets my attention and gestures towards a woman approaching our car. I brush off any remaining crumbs and step out of the car. The woman smiles politely as she gets nearer and I nod my head towards her.

"Excuse me, but could you tell me where Golden Avenue is?" She has a small voice and when she greets me she blinks sharply. I relax a bit, but not by much.

"Certainly. Take a left on 15 and go straight until you see it. It has a small green sign, so be careful not to miss it." I point down the road to where she had to turn and she smiles again courteously. I wait until she leaves to get back into my car and Miguel doesn't have to ask to know what just happened. We get asked for directions almost every day.

Then the dispatcher buzzes and Miguel answers it. I sigh. Our shift may not have started yet, but it isn't a shock to already be called in. I grip the steering wheel tightly as I start to rewire my brain. This is a job that could screw you up if you go in as yourself. You had to don the police officer you first. And thank god too, because if Miguel went in as the goofy dreamer he is we'd all be in trouble.

"There was a crash on State Road 19," he said. "They want us to clear the area." I'm glad he repeated it; I hadn't listened to the radio. I pull out of the parking lot and onto the road. It's silent for a few moments and I know Miguel is thinking. I look over at him and wonder if today will be our last. It's something that comes with the job; the ever-looming thought that everything we do could be our last. Even someone else's car crash could be the end for us.

"You ready?" I ask. Miguel glances at me out of the corner of his eyes and grins anxiously.

"Ready as I'll ever be, partner."

_It was all usual and calm. A normal day. I didn't know at the time that it'd be my last normal day for… Christ, a long time. If I had known then there'd be many things I'd do differently. Too many to name. But out of all the thousands of tiny things I would have changed, there's one that stood out from the rest._

_There's no way in Hell I'd have gone into work the next day._


	2. Coffee

**So sorry it took such a long time to update. Please enjoy!**

* * *

_What just happened?_

"Tulio, you have to keep up!"

_Was that really just me?_

"_Tulio!" _The voice does little to throw me out of my reverie, but a hand firmly grasping my wrist does the job.

I blink and the first thing I see is Miguel's face inches from mine. His big green eyes are wide and frantic and I imagine mine are close to the same. His blond hair is frayed and unkempt and his uniform is smudged with dirt. Had I taken the time to look around me, I would have seen a dense forest, vibrantly green and alive. Had I taken the time to turn around, I would have seen a much different color staining the forest floor.

"You have to run, Tulio. You can't go to jail for this," Miguel hisses urgently. My eyes focus on my partner's face, but my mind is far from here.

For a moment I wonder what he could possibly be talking about. I'm a police officer; I don't go to jail—unless of course I'm leading someone in there myself. I'm about to remind him of this when unwelcome images flash before my eyes and suddenly I know exactly what he is talking about.

_How did I ever forget?_

I wish I could do it again.

I want to drop to the ground and hug my knees to my chest. I want to stare at nothing until I can convince myself that that's what happened. That I didn't just do what I just did. But a little voice in the back of my head whispers to run, and so that is what I do.

We run for a long time, my partner and I.

* * *

The strong scent of coffee beans drags me from my thoughts, and I blink to get ahold of myself. A mug of the brown liquid is thrust into my hands and I hold onto it like it's the only thing holding me to this Earth. I feel a hand touching my wrist lightly, but they dart away as soon as I glance at them.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I focus my eyes on my partner's face. His big green eyes are full of more concern than I think I've ever seen him have. His golden hair is tangled and ruffled from the wind and his lips are screwed up into a tight smile. I'm sure he means the gesture to be comforting, but it really just reminds me that something is wrong.

Not that I had forgotten in the first place.

I stare at the cup in my hands intensely, as if it holds the answer to his question. I know I should probably take him up on his offer, but it's difficult enough for me to think right now, let alone delve into my innermost thoughts and feelings surrounding the incident. With as much energy as I can muster at the moment I shake my head. The movement is so small that at first I'm not sure if he even saw it, but when he pulls in a thin breath I realize he couldn't have missed it. There's a small silence before Miguel clears his throat.

"I was kind of expecting you to say yes. I don't really know what to do now."

For the first time in almost a day I laugh. It's thin and mostly a small huff of air, but a laugh nonetheless. I don't have to look at Miguel to know he's smiling in triumph.

"Come on, drink up. We've got to go, and I don't want you getting coffee stains all over Altivo."

Questions flood my mind. _Where are we going? Why can't we stay here? Why do you have a mug that says 'World's Best Father' if you don't have kids? _But only one question seems important enough to me in my delirious state to actually ask.

"You named the car Altivo, didn't you?" It sounds more like an accusation than a question. Miguel shrugs modestly, as if he has already come to grips with the error of his ways.

"It seemed to fit her at the time."

There's another silence as I take a small swig of my coffee.

"You do know Altivo is a boy's name, right?"

"Yeah I know, shut up."

Miguel stands and disappears into his room. The small smile that had donned my face vanishes with him. I stare at the reflection of the room against the still surface of my drink, thinking about how bent out of shape everything looks. I'm seeing the world in a very similar fashion as the coffee right now; distorted and in an ugly shade of brown.

I suddenly can't bring myself to finish the drink and I set it on the nearest counter.

I take a look at my surroundings as I wait for Miguel to finish up whatever he's doing. The place looks pretty much just like it did the last thousand times I've been here. Off-white walls with old brown furniture, a dilapidated and stained couch that has been through a lot of crap in the past ten years and will probably survive longer than any of us. Frames litter the room with pictures of Miguel and all his friends and family.

There's one sitting on his computer desk that I can't stop staring at. It's of Miguel and me on our first day as partners. We got the job just around the same time, and neither one of us had ever had a partner before. I remember he made me pose next to the squad car while his mother took a picture like he was six and it was his first day of school. In the photo, Miguel has his signature grin that reaches from ear to ear, and I'm standing next to him, arms crossed and eyes pointing towards the sky. He had tried to sling an arm around my shoulder as if we'd been friends forever, and I had just shoved him off of me when _snap!_ She took the picture.

Then there's another one hanging on the wall next to a window. Once again, Miguel is smiling like he just won the lotto. This time; however, you can see a small smile gracing my lips. One of those smiles where you can't see any teeth, but it can't quite cross the line into smirk either. This one was taken a few weeks after the first one when we had taken down our first burglar—some punk who had tried to rob a drug store but was actually in way over his head. There we were in front of the store with the cashier, Miguel's arm wrapped around him amicably. He had learned his lesson about trying to do that with me apparently.

As the pictures get more and more recent, I can see my smile getting wider and wider. Each one reminds me of something that we went through, of some memory I didn't know I remembered. I wonder what our picture would have looked like today. Would Miguel be smiling that huge grin of his? What would I look like? Would I have regressed back into my look of pure annoyance? Would my arms be crossed and my eyes rolled?

I know the answer to that one. I would look terrified. My eyes would be wide and empty as I stared into nothing. Miguel would be pulling on my arm, his face a mask of disbelief as he tries to get us to safety. Maybe I'm staring at my hands, wondering what I had just done. More likely, I'm looking at Miguel, searching for that last bit of solitude that I know I won't find anywhere else. I wouldn't be smiling at all. Neither would Miguel. I doubt that he'd felt like he'd won the lotto today.

That's one picture I'd rather burn.

I don't know what compels me to do it, but I cross the room until I reach the first photo. I slide the picture out of its frame and fold it in to a neat square, slipping it into my pocket.

Something tells me Miguel won't be around to notice its absence anyways.

The blond pokes his head from out of his room after I've returned to my seat. "We're going to have to make a pit-stop at your house. Clothes and such," He walks out of his room carrying a black suitcase. It has a bright red string tied around the handle to make it easy to pick out at the airport. I stare at the baggage dubiously for a moment before raising an eyebrow.

"Jesus, Miguel. How long do you plan on being gone for?" Without missing a beat Miguel looks me straight in the eyes and frowns.

"I didn't really plan on coming back."

I'm stunned into silence. We have to come back. We have jobs, I have a wife, Miguel has a sister. We have _lives._

But then my mind travels back to this morning, to the incident, and suddenly I realize he's right. We can't come back. I think of Chel, and my heart clenches as I realize what this is going to do to her. She won't forgive me if I leave.

But I won't forgive myself if I stay.

"Where are we gonna go?" My voice sounds hoarse and I try and swallow down the lump forming in my throat. Miguel shoots me a sly grin.

"Do you remember my uncle Chip?"

"Is he the one with the beard that reaches his stomach?"

"No, that's my aunt Molly. Chip is the one with six fingers."

"Ah. Yeah. What about him?" I ask, already beginning to see where this is going. Miguel scratches the back of his neck and chuckles uneasily.

"Well he does live in the middle of nowhere—"

"Miguel."

"…and he doesn't really keep up with the news—"

"_Miguel."_

"So, you know, I figured we could stay with him until we figure out what we're doing."

"Miguel! I am _not_ living with him. He is _insane_."

"Oh come on. He's not that bad."

"He tried to cut off my hair so he could make himself a wig."

"Okay, that was a joke."

"I don't joke about the safety of my hair."

"Well, do you have a better idea?"

"I—" I cut myself off as I realize that I may not have another option. I've got to hand it to him, for once Miguel has managed to come up with a halfway decent plan. I run my fingers through my curls uneasily, shooting daggers at the blond the entire time. "Fine. But if he so much as comes near me with a pair of scissors—"

"I'm sure you'll manage to fight him off."

Miguel doesn't wait for me to think of a clever rebuke. He grabs his suitcase in one hand, and my wrist in the other, shoving both of us out the door. I see him glance over his shoulder once as if he's taking one last mental picture of our past before he shuts the door behind him for the last time. 

_That is, we thought it would be the last time. You see, we didn't know. We had no way to know what our future held for us from that point__ on. All we knew was that it wasn't going to be good._

_At least we were right about something._


	3. Water

The car ride is silent.

I want to say something. I want Miguel to say something. I'm not especially picky about the topic; I just want something to keep my mind occupied. Something to keep me distracted from the giant cloud looming over my head.

It doesn't take us long to travel down from Miguel's apartment to the parking lot below. He throws his luggage into the trunk of his white Mustang and makes sure that I sit in the passenger seat. I stare through the mirror as Miguel walks around the back of the car, glancing over his shoulder as if he's doing something naughty. When he slides into the driver's seat he throws me a slanted grin as he shoves the keys into the ignition.

"Some weather we're having, huh?"

Miguel tilts his head towards the gathering rainclouds. They seem to be ominously foreshadowing what is to come, and it makes me wonder what has him so amused. I'm not sure what he thinks when I don't respond, but he probably doesn't mind. I just can't carry on such a normal conversation anymore. If we're going to talk, I want it to be something dark and serious—something that reflects my mood.

But since my thoughts are so jumbled and confused right now, I can't think of any words to say, and we lapse into a heavy silence that is broken only by the occasional cough or sniffle.

I pray to whoever is listening that Chel isn't home when we get there. I can't face her right now. Not when I know what I'm going to do to her, and not after what I've done. Right now, home is simultaneously the only place I want to be, and the number one spot I have to avoid.

When Miguel pulls into my driveway and turns off the engine, we sit still for several moments, neither of us saying a word. We have both seen Chel's blue car parked right in her usual spot. I glance at the tiny clock in Miguel's car, its neon green numbers lighting up the time: 12:33.

"I'm not going in there." Miguel says suddenly. He reaches over and flicks the lock button on his door, unlocking all the doors in the car.

"Thanks for the backup." I mumble halfheartedly.

"Any time. Get in there," I take a deep breath and leave the car, sending Miguel a glare over my shoulder as he adds, "and don't forget your clothes!"

My feet seem to be marching of their own accord, leading me straight up the familiar path that leads to my front door. Our house is a light shade of blue with white shutters and a dark gray roof. It has a big friendly red door that I've always thought to be obnoxious but Chel calls "homely". It's only right now that I'm realizing red isn't that bad of a color. The bright afternoon sun is blocked by the storm clouds, and it makes the house seem dark and lonely. It has an upstairs and a downstairs and it has a large backyard with a fence that surrounds it. It's perfect for a family, and comfortable for two people.

But far, far too large for one person.

I don't recall ever feeling so nervous to speak to my wife. Not since I asked her to marry me. Even then, it was a good nervous, one that kept me on a buzz for the entire day. Now, I feel a very similar buzz, but this time it makes me want to vomit.

I raise my hand to knock, before remembering that I have a key. Funny, how something like that can slip your mind. I open the door and allow it to quietly click shut behind me. I glance around at my modest little house, with the brown walls and the white furniture. The obvious evidence of a dog lies in the chewed up toys lying around haphazardly. A small amount of light spills in from outside and floods the room, but it doesn't make me feel any more comfortable. I travel towards the staircase, careful to avoid any toys or messes littering the floor.

I ascend the steps slowly, my hand dragging along the railing. I turn the corner and see the door to our bedroom right there at the end of the hall. A warm yellow light emits from under the door and several emotions flood me at once. I just want to run in there and hold her. I want to cry on her shoulder and have her do that thing where she makes me think I'm making a big deal out of nothing. I run my hands through my long hair and close my eyes hoping that when I open them, I'll just be coming home like usual. That I'll be able to walk in there and act normally, and I can just go to sleep in the middle of the day with Chel in my arms, no questions asked.

But I can't.

When I open my eyes, nothing has changed.

I make my way over to the door, my feet seeming to drag relentlessly. The walls press in close as I raise my hand to push open the door. Nothing seems real. I feel like I'm in a fabricated universe and everything is close to the real thing, but nothing is quite right. It's like I'm staring at everything through bent glass. The door slowly creaks open and makes a dull thud against the wall.

There she is, sitting cross-legged on the bed with the sheets pooled around her waist. A computer resides on her lap and her long hair is pulled back into a loose bun. She's wearing baggy white pajamas that she practically disappears into. She must not have changed after waking up. She does that a lot. I can't recall a time that she's been more beautiful. When I enter the room her gaze shifts up to meet mine and she gives me a small welcoming smile. After a moment her grin disappears and she furrows her brow in confusion.

"You're home early," she says. Her gaze shifts up and down my body slowly, taking in my appearance, "and you look like crap. You okay?

She must be referring to how dirty and disheveled my uniform is. Loose strands of my hair are poking out at random intervals, and God knows where half my equipment is. Chel swings her legs over the side of the bed and approaches me. Her beautiful brown eyes are filled with so much concern that it makes me want to weep.

I swallow heavily before my throat can close. If I cry there's no way I'm getting out of here.

God, how am I going to leave her?

"Yeah," I say, wincing as my voice cracks, "yeah it was just a rough day. I'm fine."

Chel makes a sound that sounds like a coo and pulls me over to the bed. "Sit down before you hurt yourself. I'll bring you some water." She sits me down on the edge and disappears out the door. I hear her bare feet thudding lightly on the carpet, getting quieter and quieter as she retreats down the stairs. Soon there's the _click_ of the light switch being turned on in the kitchen where there are no windows. We sometimes keep Bibo locked in the kitchen so he can't tear up the furniture, and he starts barking like mad when he sees Chel. I hear her murmur soothing reassurances to him and eventually he calms down.

Before I can convince myself to lie down and forget today ever happened, I hop to my feet and cross the room to our shared closet. The door opens with a creak that I swear sounds ten times louder than it should. From the very back of the wardrobe I pull out an old worn-down bag. It has a potent scent that makes me crinkle my nose before throwing it onto the bed. I begin pulling clothes off the hangers and tossing them next to the bag at random, not especially caring which clothes I take and which ones I don't.

The kitchen is located directly beneath my feet and I can hear the distant sound of Chel humming lightly as she turns on the sink. I can't place the tune, but it's one she constantly sings. I never thought to ask her what song it was. It's just always been a cute perk that I love about her. Now, I'll probably never know.

I shut the closet door as quietly as possible and move on to the drawers to get socks and pants. I toss those onto the bed arbitrarily, a few landing on the floor instead. I'm trying to think of what else I'll need that we can't just buy at a convenience store when I hear the sink below stop running. The light clicks off as I rush to shove the clothing into my bag, not especially worried about wrinkles. I don't want her to see me in the middle of packing.

Her steps thud against the stairs just as I manage to stuff the remaining sock into the bag. The zipper sticks and I yank it harder in order to get it to close, wincing as my finger pinches in between the clasps.

"Going somewhere?"

I whirl around to see Chel standing in the doorway, one hand pushing open the door, the other holding a clear glass of water. Her eyes flicker between me and the bag and I step in front of it in an attempt to cut off her line of vision. I'm not sure what I'm aiming to accomplish by doing so, the damage has already been done.

"Yeah, Miguel was going to take me to see his uncle. He, um, doesn't get out much, and Miguel doesn't want to go by himself. 'Cause, you know…" I twirl a finger in a circle by the side of my head to signify that Chip is crazy. I'm hoping it'll make her laugh, but she just sets the cup on the dresser and folds her arms across her chest.

"Tomorrow is Monday. Don't you work? Don't you _both_ work?" I shrug nonchalantly, eyes flitting to the window. Outside, I'm sure Miguel is beginning to get impatient. I cut my gaze to the digital clock on our nightstand. 12:44.

"Yeah, we got the day off. It's a holiday, remember?"

"What holiday is on August eighteenth?" she muses, her eyes narrowing more and more with every question.

"Uh…" my eyes wander the room until they fall on the calendar hanging next to my wife's head. Chel likes to buy the calendars with scenic landscapes above each month. This month it has a huge sparkling ocean with a seagull sitting on a rock. I don't pay much attention to the picture much because right there, on the eighteenth of August, it reads clear as day.

"We're celebrating Yukon Discovery Day."

"Yukon Discovery Day," she repeats like a mantra, her voice flat and unimpressed. I rock back and forth on my heels before weakly pointing at the glass of water on the desk.

"You should really put that on a coaster, you know."

"Tulio," her voice gets low, and I know she's not kidding around. I shrug.

"Miguel's uncle lives in Canada and the two of us got off work so we can visit him."

"Why am I the last to know?" she pouts, cutting me a glance that's becoming more and more amused with each passing moment. She believes me. Good. That's good that she believes me—even though it hurts. I wrap my arms around her comfortingly, hoping the gesture will provide me with some security as well as her. I wish her hair was down so I could run my fingers through it one last time.

"Well, I just found out myself not so long ago," I reassure her.

"How long will you be gone?"

I don't know whether or not she feels me tense, but suddenly her arms hold me tighter than they had just moments ago. I pet her back slowly as I try and calm down my breathing. How long _will_ I be gone? I wonder about all the scenarios that Chel will draw from my unexplained absence. The possibilities range from a car accident, to our gruesome murder, to me leaving her for someone else. Will she think the worst of me? Will not knowing drive her insane? I stare coldly at the dips and cracks of our wooden furniture as I reply.

"Three days at the most."

Chel sighs and pulls away from the embrace. Her eyes stare into mine intensely, as if she still isn't satisfied—like the answer to her questions are hidden in the depths of my spirit. They say the eyes are the mirror to the soul and it seems like Chel is testing that theory.

It must be true. I've never felt so exposed.

"So I'll see you by Thursday?" she asks finally, her voice quiet. She so desperately wants to believe me. I wish I wasn't lying. I kiss her forehead and rest my chin on the top of her head.

"Thursday," I promise.

Miguel blasts his horn from outside and I glare at the window, hoping he'll be able to feel it in his car. I know that we can't stall, but all I want to do is keep holding on. Eventually Chel pulls away, raising an eyebrow.

"Shouldn't you get going then?" she asks simply. For a moment I'm shocked by her chaste dismissal, before I remember that for her this isn't truly goodbye. This is a _see you later, alligator_. My lips thin into a tight smile and I nod curtly.

"Yeah. I'll see you later," I press my lips to hers and try to extend that moment for as long as possible. Try to memorize the feeling of holding her. I take a deep breath before pulling away and letting go. I grab my bag and head for the door, glancing over my shoulder once. "I love you." I say.

"Love you too," and then the door is closing and Chel's face disappears from my view, causing my heart to clench.

_After a while, crocodile._

They say that right before you die you see your life flash before your eyes. If what I'm feeling right now isn't death then I don't know what is. When I close my eyes I see my life—our life, in snippets. I see Chel the day I met her, eyes sparkling with mischief. I see her on our first date, laughing at how nervous I look. I see intelligent brown eyes that read me like a book, long black hair that feels like silk between my fingers, and I hear her voice whispering soft nothings in my ear.

It doesn't just stop there either. I see things that haven't even happened yet, things that I'd always imagined would. I see Chel's stomach all swollen with our child. I hear her complaining about the pain and sickness, but can't help but pick up on the joy beneath her words. I see her wrinkles forming, her hair graying, her back hunching. And I see us together, all old and decrepit, her big knowing eyes still seeing straight through me.

The blast of another car horn rips me from my thoughts, and it's only when the stinging blast of the cool August air hits my face that I realize my face is soaked in tears.

I've heard it said that the hardest part of letting go is the jump. When you're looking over the ledge and you can't see the bottom the last thing you want to do is lose your foothold and descend into the unknown. But once you do, all that's left afterwards is to fly. At least, that's what I've heard. But at this moment it feels more like my wings have curled up and failed me. It feels more like I'm falling.

But the destination is still a complete mystery. One I'm not sure I want to find the answer to. When I slide into the car next to Miguel, though, the one thing I know for certain is that I won't be solving it alone.


End file.
